momentum, telling signs

He lets out a shuddering, drawn-out sigh. The scent of Noah’s pheromones hasn’t dissipated hours later. It engulfs the whole of the cottage and streamlines from one room to the next. The place isn’t big, but Yang Rong had wagered that the rundown place would be ventilated enough with all the holes in lieu of windows, the cracked floorboards, the roof that’s about to topple over with one heavy gale.

His wager was incorrect. Warm-toned vanilla seeps in everywhere – through the cedarwood walls, the small cracks, the tiny openings under the door he’d barricaded one room over. The petrichor of rain only makes it more pungent. It’s not unpleasant, not at all.

The problem is just the opposite.

It is 'too' pleasant, a stimulating aphrodisiac that drives him insane.